Day Zero
by niallbranson
Summary: Zero days without an accident...and it's always the same thing he needs on nights like these. (Bethyl One-shot)


She blinked into the darkness a few times when she felt the weight on the small mattresses shift beneath her. Almost two months ago she found herself pushing both parts of the prison bunks together and when Maggie had asked she'd only shrugged her shoulders and said she wanted more room. No one had questioned her. No one had a reason to suspect that her real motivation was to allow space for her nightly visitor. She didn't turn or look over her shoulder to make sure it was him. It could _only _be him.

She knew what he needed tonight. It was always the same on 'day zero', as she called it. The day she reluctantly walked over to her board and pulled the numbers from the hooks, to start over again tomorrow. Today it had been a woman from Woodbury on her first supply run. An already small group of three had returned a group of two and it made her heart ache that once again, it was _him _that had to return empty handed, blue eyes cast down as he told a parent, a sibling, a child or a lover that their loved one had fallen a victim to their cruel world.

_We don't get to get upset..._

She'd listened from across the yard, watched as the woman's sister fell to her knees in front of him, weeping openly and she felt the urge to run to them, to snatch him away to protect him from his own feelings of guilt and tell the grieving woman that she didn't get to get upset. What was more, she didn't get to get upset in front of _him. _Instead she'd walked into the prison, deposited a squirming toddler on her over-sized bunk and ripped the "1" and the "4" from the cardboard sign. Day zero again.

Nights like tonight were different.

Nights like tonight didn't have unsure hands that she eventually had to grab hold of and guide. He would blush then, mumble a gruff 'm'sorry' and she would only shake her head to reassure him, stroking his face and she was truly fascinated that it was _her _guiding _him;_ even with all the years between them. But then, it had been awkwardly established that she _did _have a grand total of two lovers over him.

Tonight didn't have his hesitant kisses; they had become bolder in the months that followed the first few times. He used to only allow himself quick, sweet pecks to her lips and there'd come a night where she had taken initiative, thoroughly exploring _him _in a hope that he would reciprocate. She'd discovered much that night. Where to let her lips attach to his neck to get rewarded with soft gasps; it gave her a sort of unexplainable thrill to know no one else had made him feel that way. Then the thrill would quickly be replaced by sadness for the exact same reason. Her heart broke at the thought of the lonely life he must have had before all of this. What kind of life was it where the end of the world gave you more happiness? She'd discovered that there was a faded tattoo over his heart with the name of a man. His father, perhaps? She'd traced the letters with her fingers and he watched her closely, but she hadn't asked and he hadn't explained. It was better that way.

Tonight they wouldn't have to stifle sounds and curses (on his part) as she let her hands clutch to his back for dear life, fingers tracing the old scars that she only sometimes thought about. He wouldn't bury his face in the crook of her neck, beard scratching her skin and his uneven breath warming her and reminding her how very alive they both were in this cold, dead world.

She loved those nights. When they laid there, looking up at the gray concrete ceiling of the prison and she had nothing to focus on or think about but the pattern of his breathing as it crept back down to normal. She liked to think that his mind was as clear as hers was after they were together. She liked to believe that she gave him some sort of peace of mind to all the horrors and worries he faced every day. She wanted nothing more than to make the entire world better for him. To kiss the scars on his back and have them go away and take the memories with them. She wanted to have the courage to listen to every story behind each of his tattoos and maybe have those memories disappear too; dissipate into the air along with the words.

She desperately wanted to hide him away from every crying, angry and grieving face. Every person that had lost someone. Because she knew that it always came back to him. He was the leader on the supply runs and he should have been responsible for everyone returning, for everyone being safe. He should have willed his bike to go faster, gotten the medication into their people and maybe lives would have been spared.

He was the last person she would ever blame for any of their tragedies, if there was ever anyone to blame at all. But she knew him. She knew that no matter the man that would fight and defend them all until his last ounce of energy, he was still that little boy that one disapproving look would convince him he was to blame. He never was of course, but it made her wish she could go back to the years before she was born, or even thought of, and protect him from the neglecting mother and abusive father that had damaged and broken the wonderful man in her arms.

Those were the thoughts that plagued him on day zero. He never said as much, but she knew. She always knew. So she would only hold him. Any way he wanted to be held on that particular night and she would mold herself to his body. Tonight he snuggled into her; head on her chest and his arms wrapped around her waist. She turned her head over to look at the wall next to her and waited for him to speak. He always did on these nights and it was always understood that the next day it would be as if he had said nothing at all.

"I didn't even have to put her down." He began, tracing random patterns on her stomach. She started stroking his hair and she was amazed, as always, at how soft it was. Tonight it was slightly damp and smelled of soap. "Walkers didn't leave much left to come back."

She didn't respond. She only brought one of her hands down to stroke his arm, stopping when she felt puckered flesh under her fingers and he winced slightly.

"What is this?"

"Got cut tryin' to fix the fence this mornin'. It's nothing."

"You should have my daddy check it out tomorrow. Could get infected."

He nodded and although a silence settled between them, she could tell his mind was reeling.

"Herschel asked what I was talkin' to ya about the other day. At breakfast."

"What did you say?" She asked cautiously.

"That I was just asking about how Judith was doing."

She had never given much thought to what other's, especially her father, would say about them. But then, she never intended for them to find out. Him being her secret felt comforting to her. It was the only thing she had that was hers; that no one could take away. He was the only break she got from looking after a family of a young boy and a baby that weren't hers. Sometimes, when she changed diapers or spent nights worrying about a toddler's health, she felt as if she'd aged ten years since the day she left her beloved farm. In some ways, she had. She hadn't meant for anyone to know about them, but if they did, she was ready to put up a fight if anyone dared begrudge her something of her own. No matter who that might be with.

"Did he believe you?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't know. He hasn't said anything since."

She looked down towards his face, he was fiddling with a lose strand on the hem of her shirt and he looked so _young _right then. Almost boyish in a way that even Zach and Jimmy, many years younger, never had. She brought her hand to his handsome face and settled back into the pillow then, closing her eyes and feeling his warm skin beneath her hand. He was so different from those boys. The way he looked at her, touched her or even spoke to her were different. Rough but comforting; he didn't see the world through hopeful rose tinted glasses and she was grateful that he was one of the few to never tiptoe around the truth for her sake. She wasn't a delicate little girl about to fall apart anymore. She'd left that part of her in a bloody mess in her bathroom at the farm.

He said things as they were and often times he would say nothing at all and that was fine too. She understood him when he didn't speak; knew what he was trying to say just with a look. His face was mature and wise but his eyes were so very innocent. It was a perfect juxtaposition of herself, who _looked_ young and innocent but her heart felt heavy with what seemed like years of loss and responsibilities. They fit so well together like that. His young, untainted heart and her old and tired one.

She bent down to place a kiss on top of his head and he griped her a little tighter. He was always so needy of her affections on nights like these. Not of the sensual kisses or touches but of the innocent ones. The comforting ones that led nowhere but he could just snuggle into them, finding enough peace to fall into a blank, nightmare-free sleep for a few hours, before he woke at the crack of dawn and snuck back to his own cell.

She loved nights like these. It reminded her that he needed her as much as she needed him. She was glad it was him. She'd not given it much thought before the first time it had happened. When they'd lost three in one day and he had gone into her cell for seemingly no reason, sitting with her in companionable silence all night and staring at her board and the "0"s that hung from both hooks, until she finally found the courage to wrap her arms around him. She'd been lonely for a while then, and she had almost considered others. She was glad she hadn't. It seemed natural that she find him; someone who seemed in need of a reminder that life went on. Now, she couldn't imagine anyone else she could share her nights with. Anyone else she could hold and bring peace to the way she did with him. It had always been a part of who she was. She was a nurturer; she cared and comforted and it was a natural pull she had to him: the person that needed the most comfort and care.

Nights like tonight reminded her how important a comforting word or touch was to the fighter next to her and how she was the only one to know that. Everyone else seemed to overlook that the man who seemed like he would welcome a hug the least, was the one who longed for one the most. She smiled into the darkness when she heard his slow, even breaths that indicated he now slept. She continued to run her hands through his hair; just to remind him that she was there if he needed her, and that she wasn't going anywhere. Where would she go? Comforting him, scaring the horrors of a long day away from his mind was her job; and they all had jobs to do.


End file.
